


Nowhere Man

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Pre-Series, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He's a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land...</em> Sometimes, when he least expects it, the vagabond life gets to him and he's left grappling. Teen!Chester. Dean's 19, Sam's 15.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere Man

**Author's Note:**

> _**A/N:**_ Teen!Chester. Dean's 19, Sam's 15. In this fic, Dean's already a high school dropout (I'm assuming he drops out at 17, post-AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL events). I know Dean didn't graduate from high school... but anyways, in here, keeping with the sketchy timeline, Dean's already been out of high school for a year or two...
> 
> As always, a kazillion thanks and a huge smish to my wickedly fantastic Beta, **mad_server** , for the endless support and editing and slamming this back to me so fast. 
> 
> _**Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. I'm just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. The title and part of the summary comes from a song bearing the same title owned by the Beatles and Apple Records, which I do not own or even remotely have the rights to.

"Come Josephine, in my flying machine, going up she goes, up she goes…" Leonardo DiCaprio croons softly into Kate Winslet's ear.

Dean reaches out in the darkened room, fumbles besides him and closes his hand around the girl's. Her palm is small and impossibly soft against his own.

The movie sucks ass, but being here, in a living room that looks like it's straight out of the pages of some glossy _Crate and Barrel_ catalogue, sitting on a couch that actually doesn't smell of stale cigarettes for once, is infinitely better than spending another Friday night in some seedy, podunk motel room at the edge of town waiting for Dad to come home from yet another hunt, holding his breath that Dad doesn't stumble in drunk or, worse, beaten to hell and back, bleeding out on the motel carpets.

Here, for once, he almost feels normal. As though he's actually nineteen without a care other than what will the popular crowd think on Monday morning and what to do about Prom and graduation and dreaming of colleges while griping about minimum wage jobs, oblivious that monsters are real. As though he doesn't already possess a Ph.D in weapon-training and First Aid.

He rubs his thumb against the back of her hand, grimacing as his thick calluses chafe against her sensitive fingers but she doesn't disengage. Instead, she turns her head towards him, teeth flashing in the blue glow of the television set.

He keeps his gaze trained on Jack and Rose standing in lip-lock on the prow of a semi-impressive computer-generated ship, hurtling into the sunset of certain doom. _The pretty-boy wouldn't last five minutes in a room with a poltergeist_ , he thinks bitterly, shifting his shoulder. It's still sore from his last run-in with one less than a week ago. _And what is the point of this fucking movie? They all die anyway..._

He sees the girl watching him, her forehead furrowing with concern, and Dean feels naked, as though he's being dissected like those pathetic, white-bellied, gut-swollen Biology frogs. Suddenly, he can't remember her name — Stacy? Julie? Something perky and cheerleader-ish — or what he's doing here. He swallows, thinking of Sam back at the motel. Of Dad who hasn't been home in three days. Of the motel owner who is breathing down his neck for the rent he doesn't have.

Then, he feels like he's drowning, his lungs burning with pressure and the incapacity to draw a decent breath. The room's closing in on him fast.

He abruptly stands, pulling away his hand. "I-I... I gotta go," he stammers.

The girl's face clouds with confusion in the flickering light.

"Sorry," he says, not even sure what he's apologizing for. "Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just… There's something I gotta do." He doesn't let the girl answer, stumbling out of the room, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of a kitchen bar stool as he staggers out of the house, nearly tripping down the stairs, not stopping until he's outside and safely behind the wheel of the Impala.

Even the familiar leather surroundings, with its smell of gun grease and deodorant doesn't do anything to bring him down. He revs out of the narrow driveway and tears up the pavement, leaving the gated, suburban community behind, beelining for the crap-motel-room-of-the-week. He swings the car somewhat crookedly into a parking space in front of Room 19 and is out almost before the engine cuts completely. Busting into the motel room, he lurches, the too-bright, too-harsh fluorescent lights stabbing his eyes, making him wince.

Sam's gaze snaps from his Algebra textbook, pencil hovering over his notebook. He's lying on his stomach, stretched out on his bed, feet in the air. "Dean? I thought you were supposed to be at Angie's all night. Weren't you planning on banging her?"

Dean slumps down onto the nearest bed, legs giving out. He leans forward, elbows on knees, the fingers of his right hand squeezing the bridge of his nose.

"Dean?" Sam's voice rises with concern. "You okay? What happened?"

"Nothing, Sam. It's fine." He lets out a slow breath, heartbeat regulating, his panic fading in the familiarity of his surroundings. "Apparently she's saving herself for marriage." He swallows, lets out a bitter, empty laugh. "There's still virgins on the cheerleading team. Who knew?"

"So you ditched her?"

"It wasn't like that." A hard, defensive edge blunts his words.

Dean hears Sam rise, papers rustling, but doesn't look up. A moment later, an aluminum can appears before him, held by a disembodied hand. He glances up and Sam's standing in front of him, offering a Coke, hazel eyes searching from beneath his bangs.

He focuses on the red, logo-emblazoned can instead. It's name-brand for once, not some cheap, off-brand spinoff that's so prominent at the haunts they frequent and there's still moisture clinging to the aluminum sides. Looking away, he takes the Coke from his brother. "Thanks."

"No problem," Sam says, the mattress of his bed thumping, springs creaking as he throws himself back down on it.

Dean pops open the can and takes a long drink, draining almost half of the dark, sweet soda before stopping. He glances across the narrow space between the beds, sees Sam working through his math problems, a crease developing between his eyebrows. Without breaking concentration, Sam picks up the remote from besides him and extends his arm. "Here dude, put something on."

Accepting the remote, Dean presses the red power button and the snowy television focuses on the _Ghostbusters_. He chuckles ruefully. _Well, ain't that just fitting_ , he thinks as he settles on his side, propping himself up with his elbow.


End file.
